


Wherever I May Roam

by messageredacted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:40:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messageredacted/pseuds/messageredacted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are 264 miles between New Harmony, IN and Pontiac, IL.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wherever I May Roam

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between No Rest for the Wicked and Lazarus Rising.
> 
> Originally written 16 January 2009.

Three hours in, he has to pull over. His fingers have stiffened around the steering wheel and it takes him a full five minutes to pry them free. He sits, staring at his hands curled into claws, as the traffic passes on the highway.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. He has no maps, no plans. There were times when this was kind of lazy and fun, when he and Dean would take out the maps and pick a direction at random, deciding on what direction felt right. Even when they had no new hunts, they would keep moving. There was something about being in the car and putting road behind them that was intoxicating. The destination meant nothing.

There are a couple other cars at the gas pumps, but Sam can’t see anyone through the windows of the convenience store except for the store clerk. He can’t decide if he wants to get out of the car and go inside. It seems like it should be a simple decision, but it’s not.

Sam presses his hands flat on his thighs, stretching out his fingers until they unbend. If he doesn’t go into the store, he has to get back on the road. He takes off his seatbelt and opens the door. Cool air rushes in, bringing with it the smell of gasoline and car exhaust. He gets out of the car.

The bell of the shop jingles when he enters and the clerk glances over but doesn’t say anything. Sam keeps his hands at his sides and walks slowly down the aisles, staring blindly at the snacks, at the plastic jewelry and cheap sunglasses and water bottles. He isn’t hungry.

A commercial plays over the speakers. Sam’s shoes make no sound on the floor. The clerk ignores him. He could be a ghost, except he can see his reflection in the glass of the refrigerated section. He pauses, staring at his face. The glass erases most of the details, just leaving him with the basics: the shadows of his eyes, the smudge of a nose. He can’t quite read his own expression.

He picks out a package of beef jerky and brings it to the counter. The clerk looks up from his magazine.

“Is that all?”

Sam stares at the wall of cigarettes, lottery tickets and tiny liquor bottles. “The Jack,” he says, pointing. The clerk takes down a flask of Jack Daniels and puts it on the counter next to the beef jerky. Sam hands him his license.

The clerk glances at it. “Happy birthday,” he says, handing it back.

Sam can feel his face freeze. He takes his license stiffly.

“Fourteen eighty,” says the clerk.

His fingers have curled again. He takes a crumpled twenty from his pocket and tosses it on the counter, then grabs the jerky and Jack. He’s too claustrophobic to wait for his change so he turns and leaves, stepping back out into the cool night. The clerk doesn’t bother calling after him.

And then it’s him and the car again. It’s sitting across the parking lot, parked across the lines. It looks small and stuffy, closed in with air he’s been breathing in and out for a hundred miles. He realizes that he’s holding the beef jerky in his hand and that he doesn’t even like beef jerky; Dean was the one who always bought it and always ate it.

He opens the car door and then rests his elbow on the top of the car as he pauses, taking a deep breath of the cool air. He’s not done driving yet and he doesn’t know how long it’s going to take, but he’ll know it when he sees it. It’s like how he and Dean used to travel, picking whatever direction felt right.

He gets into the car and shuts the door, putting the beef jerky on the empty passenger’s seat. The Jack he holds between his knees. He puts the keys in the ignition but stops before turning on the car. He opens the bottle of Jack and studies it, then turns in his seat.

“To the road,” he says to the shape under the blanket on the back seat, and then he drinks.


End file.
